


Memories from the Red Room

by myidiotclintbarton



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Freeform, Gen, Graphic Imagery, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Natasha POV, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov-centric, Origin of the Black Widow, Poetry Freeform, precanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15189854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myidiotclintbarton/pseuds/myidiotclintbarton
Summary: Natasha didn’t like talking about her past. She liked it that way. It was better left unknown to others the depraved conditions she used to know as her entire world..................................Disjointed snippets from Natasha’s life growing up as a weapon.





	Memories from the Red Room

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:(Anything italicized is Russian)
> 
> Just a little character study of one of my favorite girls, I know it's quite different from what I usually do but I’m really happy with this piece. Get my daughter a solo movie already. I took inspiration from her backstory in the comics, like her dealings with the Winter Soldier and Clint being the one to help her defect, which is in the comics and the MCU.  
> Inspired by the MCU Supercut - The Black Widow by MCUExchange on YouTube and 7 Minutes of Black Widow Kicking Ass in 4K. Please, if you want, listen to these songs that inspired this piece.  
> Playlist:  
> Ruelle - Game of Survival  
> 2WEI - Survivor  
> Ruelle - Deep End  
> Tili Tili Bom

Natasha didn’t like talking about her past. She liked it that way. It was better left unknown to others the depraved conditions she used to know as her entire world. It was the place she grew up but it was never a home.

The Red Room.

She didn’t think she’d classify her time there as a life nor a childhood even with all she learned. Weapons were manufactured in that children’s home. Deadly and cunning weapons that could think just enough for themselves to destroy a target who fought back but not enough to leave or kill an instructor. There is no escape. All of the girls had been brought in would never be missed, all unwanted and left on the streets. Where else would they go? Who else would want them? This was their home.

Empathy was in scarce supply and the last of it was snuffed out by the time she was ten, a girl with blond hair being dragged taken for showing any hint of sympathy. She remembered older girls being broken, younger girls being punished. Natalia needed to survive. She needed to excel. So she pushed herself as far as she could.

Natalia made herself promising. She memorized every weapon, every bullet round size. She knew the ins and outs of them all, her arsenal far more deadly than any child should be. She studied how to maneuver the quickest way to kill someone without their neighbors hearing. She restricted herself, forcing any cries to die in her throat no matter what they did. Only once had she broken and showed weakness and by then her handlers were much too invested to start the project over again. She had shot the man in the chair. Someone she had seen during her process over with another young girl. There were less girls in the halls everyday. Smaller were the classes behind her. So she didn’t fail. There she had no right to fail. She couldn’t say no to this. She couldn’t say no to the invasive experiments, she couldn’t say no to this.

The Black Widow Project was a horror show plain and simple. Something she’d never let anyone else ever endure. It was strict and precisely conducted as soulless as they wanted their assassins. Torture was part of the daily curriculum and only the most fit survived. They were always mindful of her face. She was pretty they said. Pretty enough to turn the right heads.

 _“Excuse me for the intrusion, miss,”_ a man had said, voice disingenuous, staring at her like she was a slab of meat he couldn’t wait to get his hands on. She had made quick work of the target, blood seeping into her white stockings and the soles of her black school shoes. She tried not to feel anything as they squished on her way back to her handlers.

It was worse when the targets were kind to her. They thought they were showing a small girl they didn’t know a small act of kindness she would repay with a bullet to their head and two embedded in their heart. Those targets always looked so different gasping their last breaths left reaching out for something as their body leaked. Leaked of blood red like her own locks of hair that swayed as she left the body.

The only time she felt the tingle of snow on her pale skin was during an exam. She was allowed outdoors for this reason alone. She always accomplished what needed to be done. Exams soon became missions.

Her proctors were quick and vigilant, able to spot the most minute of mistakes.

_Rise and shine, young ones. It’s time to make your mark. To truly be chosen as Black Widows._

One by one, girls were eliminated, not living up to the standards of their teachers. She knew when one was going to be taken away once they had made far too many mistakes. She could hear it in her teachers voices. She remembered to fear hearing those tones when they referred to her.

_Not good enough. Again._

When they would grow frustrated.

_Again._

There was no tolerance for disobedience or weakness.

_Again._

There was no panicking.

_Again._

Only pain would follow if she had. She had, at times, waited for her time to be taken too. Years this went on for but they never did. Natalia had prevailed.

They said she served her homeland well but she didn’t know what her homeland was. She knew things about places and languages and social expectations but she never really felt for it. She was assured her place there was good. But she never felt it.

A single piano recited the same chords she knew by heart aware that she would disappear lest she forget. Her toes deformed and battered. She ached but still she practiced well.

Each performance had to be perfect. She spun and balanced and bowed her head in time with the ivory keys. Their expectations were high.

Every death exact. She strangled and shot and poisoned to the tune of her teachers.

They ordered. She listened.

They all looked proud.

Natalia had been one of their most promising pupils. One of their most promising puppets. 

They all looked so proud of themselves.

They had been crafting the perfect killer. Every part of her moved by design like any good tool would. She was dependent upon them for everything. They were her agency. Her freedom was non existent.

She slit open her victim’s throats with confident strokes, watching their lifeblood pour out as they gargled for help. The smell of iron was strong but her will was stronger. She stomached the smell and continued drawing the life from the bodies. She knew the feeling of a slowing heartbeat. She was cold.

She had earned her title. A master assassin. A Black Widow.

Even when they didn’t bleed she still had to be sure enough to watch the life leave their eyes. They would struggle for breath against a cord strung around their windpipe like the sparkling necklace she was made to wear as an eye candy trap on many outings. She still reaped the lives of the her victims no matter what form their death took.

Men so easily seduced would grab at the hem of her skirts and later she would leave their homes or hotel rooms, poison deposited in their gullets evidence of her existence washed away. She always returned to the children’s home.

She never failed to.

Her entire world was all grays, blacks and reds. The Home. The missions. The blood. 

They told her she would work with their greatest asset, the Winter Soldier. Her resume filled with enough of the right people's blood. He looked only a few years older than her but she was sure she was wrong. He was credited with kills older than he looked.

The Asset was stripped of his emotions as well. He was good at imitating them when he needed to as she was. They were an efficient team. He brought a raw power to her finesse.

People were all too kind and easily would welcome a lost American couple into their homes and out of the cold. The Winter Soldier and the Black Widow would leave broken bodies behind them, eyes dull and empty as they walked away from each horrific scene. Always reporting back. After all, they were the property of others. They had no purpose beyond that. This isn’t how a person should be, something inside her had whispered. But she wasn’t a person, so what did it matter.

Her mind was muddled but her aim perfect and more fell by her hand. It wasn’t easy to forget. Maybe someday it would be. She doubted it.

She had met a man. An American. A master archer. He was sent to kill her. Instead, he offered her a way out. He asked her to trust him. What an odd claim, she had thought. Trust was something that could be used to lure someone to their death. She fought him. He was as well trained as she was. He had captured her and brought her back to a safe house. He never tried anything with her. She didn’t know what he wanted if that was the case. She hadn’t any information that wasn’t strictly needed during a mission. He was a curious man but she was confident. She couldn’t be turned.

But she has wavered. She could be discarded. She had an expiration date. Her usefulness only lasted as long as she could kill and deceive. This man offered something different than that. Something too good for her. It wasn’t true. That’s what she had told herself.

She thought he was foolish to turn his back to her. She had gotten out of his bindings and attempted to slice his throat open. She was swift but again he countered. Again he stopped her. Again he didn’t hurt her while she was restrained and bound. He only talked. His voice was kind like those she would kill without a second thought, needing to impress her teachers. She was merciless for them.

She was tired of them. She had enough. If this man had lied, she was confident that she could pick him off from a distance if she got away. Was there something other than the Red Room? She thought of the smiling faces she was required to replicate. What was it like to have something like that come to one's lips without having to think about the kill? Could she ever do that? She hadn’t known anything else besides the Home. Her teachers wouldn’t be happy with her if they found out. But this man offered her something different from the gray halls and muffled pains. She made her decision. She defected. She broke that chain off. They’d never get her back. She was used to watching her back by now. She hadn’t known yet, still too confused about her place in the world, about the Red Room, about everything, that she’d never look back with anything other than pure and utter hate.

“So now that you’re going to be coming along with me, why don’t we start over?” Start over. What an odd phrase that was. "Why don’t I property introduce myself? I’m Clinton Barton but you can call me Clint.” He paused for a short beat before he spoke again, gesturing to her expectantly, “and you are?” He asked as if he wanted to get to know her. But there was no her, only an empty shell, right? Maybe she could find out one day. She looked up to him, her eyes meeting his own before she opened her mouth, words careful and suspicious,

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”

He smiled. It didn't seem fake nor planned.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natalia.”

Hope hadn’t ever been a part of her vocabulary before but she was sure what she had felt in that moment was something like it.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think and if you liked it! I had a lot of fun with this one, really flowed from my brain.


End file.
